Welcome to False Choices. If you are new here, I post about once a week or so, as time permits. Sometimes I write reviews of old stories that I think are worth remembering, and sometimes I post stories, fiction or nonfiction, as the case may be. Sometimes, like today’s post, I’m not entirely sure what part is fiction, and what part is not. By the way, if you enjoy my work, and would like a notification in your inbox when I post, please
This story started on a very warm July day. I was taking an adult beverage at Dick’s place in Lake Leelanau, when I heard some details of the following story from a group of ladies sitting at a table near the bar. I eavesdrop whenever the opportunity arises because, like most writers, I find there’s really nothing more interesting than when people talk about their own lives.
Well, this group of four women was unusual in that they appeared to me, from my short glances, to be related. And when one of them came up to the bar to request another round, I was able to make eye contact and start a short conversation. The four were sisters, as I suspected, and the subject of their conversation was a younger brother, the only boy in the family, and a step brother in fact. The four had all returned to the Leelanau because of some pending event about which they were very upset. It involved their brother Pete, but the nature of the event was left tantalizingly unknown. At first I thought it must be a funeral as all the descriptions were so bleak. Then I had the impression it was a trial. Oh, I thought, this poor Pete was on his way to the local prison or cemetery, but which was it?
Finally the four ladies finished their round and paid the bill. When they left I took the last cool draught of my own drink, and in paying the bill, made a sly comment to the bartender which I hoped would provide a useful comeback, and in fact it did:
“That was a lively group at the table there, they were pretty upset about something.”
“Ahh, the Kucera sisters, haven’t seen them in ages. They’re here for the big event.”
Well, I had at least a name to go on, but I didn’t want to appear too meddlesome, so I pressed the man no further. But I was honestly intrigued, so I spent the rest of the weekend working it all out. The following story is my best understanding of how it happened and how it turned out as it did. But I beg the reader to keep in mind that just because I heard the following described by good people who appeared to have no dog in the hunt, as they say, the truthfulness of this story is only as good as the memories and recollections of the people who told it to me; and of course their memories and recollections are tinged with the prejudices that all of us bring to the events of our lives. So let’s get on with it, and the story of Snow.
Every February afternoon the sun, what little there was of it on its low midwinter trip across the southern sky, made its way west to the Big Lake, and the wind picked up and the snow started to come in sideways. Huge swirls lifted in the open fields and flew away as violently as white powder can. He turned away from the kitchen window.
There was baked bread on the block, and simmering meat on the stove, gently bubbling away in its sauce. The potatoes, tender now, were drained of salted water and then mashed into a puree with tablespoons of butter. The table was set.
He glided across the kitchen, having learned the thousand simple lessons of cooking and finishing a meal over the last few years. He cut and tossed a salad, and then sliced the bread and put the slices and the butter on the table. He made his plate, lifting several thick slices of venison from the gravy, and then scooping the deep brown sauce redolent of onions and horseradish over his potatoes. Music played in the background, a habit he began when eating alone three times a day became his normal.
He sat down with his phone next to him and began eating. The sports news was at least interesting these days; a few of the teams he followed started to come out of their slumbers recently and better times were ahead. He enjoyed the rebuilds as they were known and kept abreast of their progress.
He heard a thud from the front room and suspected it was snow and ice sliding off the steel roof; but then he heard three more. He moved quickly to see what had happened. He saw a person on the porch, through the sidelight, dressed in brightly colored winter ski clothes. As he opened the door, she turned; her eyes were beautiful, and there was a streak of blood across her face that some of her brown hair had stuck to. There was blood streaked across her clothing as well.
“Can you help me please?” she yelled across the glass of the outer door.
He shook his head, and said “Ok.”
“I’m over here,” she said, pointing to the orchard to the west of his. She flipped the glass face of her helmet down and began to walk away, in the direction she’d pointed.
He shut the door and ran to the back of the house. He began to build his layers, trying to think what he should do. He grabbed his phone. He put on his boots and took his poles and snowshoes to the garage. He opened one garage door and he saw her walking steadily toward whatever had happened while he strapped on the snow shoes. She was an athletic woman, lean and her stride was strong and graceful. He was moving as quickly as possible. He’d forgotten his mittens. Damn, he thought. But there was no time now to start over, he already had his snowshoes on. He snatched an old pair of work gloves off a shelf and started away down the long drive to where her steps could be seen moving up the hill behind his property. In a few minutes he saw her bright colors mixed with dull browns and grays of the winter cherry trees. She was kneeling down. Closer, he saw the sled, on its side, nearly rolled over.
She lifted the glass of her helmet. “I lost my mitten when I flipped over, and I cut my hand on something when I tried to turn the sled back up. I just need a hand flipping it, ok?”
“Yeah, not a problem.” He put his poles off to the side and got both hands under the sled. She was going to jump in and help but before she could the sled was righted. He stepped back to his poles and then he saw her mitten lying in the round hollow of snow the wind created at the base of an apple tree. He leaned over and picked it up. When he turned the woman was sitting on the sled, smiling at him brightly.
“Well, aren’t you a hero? Thank you!”
He handed over the mitten and began to walk away. He was blushing a little, not that you could tell in the deep cold and wind, but his eyes showed his embarrassment, and he knew it and looked away a little. She noticed and was troubled, unclear why her words had bothered him. Not that he could explain why if she asked.
“Ok, let’s see if the old girl’l start.” The motor turned over a few times and then it caught. She went forward to where he’d walked, bouncing the sled through the deep unpacked powder.
“Can I give you a ride?”
“Oh, it’s not a long walk and I could use the exercise. You have blood on your face.”
“Oh, my God, do I really?”
“Yeah, come back with me, you can use the bathroom and fix up your finger.”
The drip of blood from her finger had stopped only because she held her thumb against the wound. She gave him another long look as he made his way through the deep snow. What can you really tell about a man from behind as he snowshoes home? That he was strong and not bad looking, and competent on his feet in the snow, but what else? Was it worth the gamble?
She wasn’t sure, but it was many miles back to Cedar and it was already late afternoon. She’d lost a good hour after she flipped the sled and the sun would be down shortly. She wanted to think it was a rational decision to follow him back to his house, but it was a lie. She’d put herself in a bad situation, and now she could only forge ahead and hope for the best.
He popped off his snowshoes by the garage and turned around to her, signaling one second. She waited, wondering what he meant. Then the other garage door lifted and there was an empty bay to drive into. But this was only going to take a minute, right? Before she could ask him what was up, he was already through the door and into the house. She drove in and parked. He’d left the door to the house slightly ajar so she walked through it.
“If you wouldn’t mind, could you take off your boots?” His hat and coat removed, she saw a man who could use a haircut, his black hair was matted down here and raised straight up there. His shoulders were broad for his frame, which was on the tall and thin side, and he had the large, thick hands of a farmer, which he obviously was. His face though was clean shaved and without lines, but there was a crease from his smile on either side of his mouth.
She removed her boots and the helmet and followed him to the bathroom, passing by the table where his supper sat, cold and congealed. She was now a little embarrassed, too. In the bathroom he started the hot water tap and reached into a cupboard for the Costco sized box of assorted band aids. Then he handed her a fresh white washcloth from the same cupboard. They both got the first clear look at each other in the mirror over the sink. They were both slightly surprised. She broke it up, looking down at the cloth under the stream of warm water.
She dabbed the blood on her face until her hair was unstuck and the blood washed away. Her nose started to run. He handed her a kleenex.
“Do you need help with your finger?”
She still had her thumb pressed against the wound, and when she lifted it there was a little fresh blood visible in the cut. She didn’t respond. He took a large band aid, removed the paper like he had experience at this, and she held out her finger for him to wrap it around. “If it stops bleeding we can put on a new wrap with some antibiotic.”
“Ok.”
He walked out and pushed the door back on his way. She finished closing it and made sure to remove any dried blood from her hair. She hated doing it, but she locked the door and slid the insulated sled jumper down, and then her jeans. When you have to pee, she thought.
Peter Kucera, or Pete as everyone called him, is 26 years old at this time. Born in the Northport hospital not far from the farmhouse he lives in today, Pete spent most of his life within the same small piece of Leelanau county. It had not been his dream to farm the rolling land of his family’s 200 acres. But it was also not something he minded. He was an only son, in fact the only child of his father’s second marriage. His Dad’s first wife died very young, leaving him with four girls all younger than ten years. The elder Kucera remarried a year later with a teacher from the local school, and Peter came along less than a year later.
As a toddler he chased his laughing sisters around the house and was happy to oblige them in their games of house. But as he grew up he had little interest in their flights of imagination and over time the girls and the little boy each grew to disdain the company of the other. In fact Pete developed a disdain for the female sex as a whole. Around boys he was as natural and carefree a boy as you might imagine, but when a girl appeared he lost all interest and shrugged away. His mother and father noted his behavior and told the sisters to leave the boy alone, which they were happy to do, actually, having formed a similar dislike of the boy in equal measure.
In high school Pete’s aversion to girls didn’t dissipate as you might expect, but possibly increased. His Mom and Dad helpfully suggested that he consider asking a girl to the homecoming dance, or other school events, but Pete resisted. His parents couldn’t understand his reticence since they saw girls give the young man the eye at church, and he was as popular as any boy at school. Farm life allowed Pete to play only one sport, but he was very good at basketball, and the team he led at school was not without success. He grew into a frame that was perfect for the sport, long and lanky and well muscled. That he couldn’t or wouldn’t find a date became a gnawing mystery to his parents.
After high school Pete continued to work on the farm that first summer. He showed little interest in college though he could have attended any number of schools without a hitch. In August with cherry harvest behind him, Pete overheard a conversation between a couple of older guys and it stuck in his head; a week later he found himself in a Coast Guard recruitment office. His test results soon came back and now it was decision time. Without any hesitancy he signed the enlistment papers and in September he shipped out to basic training.
The Coast Guard opened up new vistas to the young man. He was physically ready for the challenge and managed to do well in his classes, too. The female recruits, there were only a few, noticed him and before long he enjoyed his first experience with a woman. But then they went their separate ways as happens to new recruits. He took a billet in the Gulf. The years passed by quickly as they do for young people grappling with life on their own for the first time. Pete spent a few leaves back at the family farm, helping with spring planting or summer harvests. Then his four years were up and he moved home with the notion that it was temporary, but he took down a couple of deer during the season and his old life began to look appealing to the now grown 22 year old man. He decided to stay.
His social life as a man continued along the same line as it had as a boy. A lot of time with the boys he’d grown up with, playing basketball when the opportunity offered, and even trying pond hockey for a change of venue. Of course Pete hunted and fished whenever he could, but the years clicked ahead and no girl showed up. He even attended the weddings of a few good friends, but the idea of a change to his own social situation never arose. His parents gave up wondering about it. His father came to the conclusion that it was probably better this way: “There’s nothing worse in life than a married bachelor,” he told Pete’s Mom, “some men are simply not going to flourish with a woman in their home, and if they try, they just make the both of them miserable.”
Shortly after Pete’s 24th birthday, his Dad suffered a mild stroke, which precipitated the contract they signed to give the farm to Pete in payment for which Pete would provide his parents a monthly stipend and assume the mortgage for a small house in the city until it was paid off or Dad and Mom were gone from this good Earth. And just like that, Pete the bachelor was the sole occupant of the farmhouse and the owner of 200 acres of fruit trees, as long as he continued to farm it. Of course, if he decided to sell then the proceeds would be distributed among all five children.
He was back in the kitchen when she reappeared, leaning over the sink. “I can hook up my trailer and take you where you need to go tonight,” he offered, hearing her behind him. It was really snowing again, and between the deep gray clouds and the snow, it looked an hour later than it was.
“I’ve been so much trouble, I feel terrible that I’ve bothered you so much, even your Sunday dinner,” she replied.
“Where is it that you were going to stay tonight?” he asked.
“Cedar.”
“Cedar! Really, you rode all the way out here from Cedar?”
“Yeah, I’m embarrassed to say that I’m not really sure where I am. I came cross country and there were two or three times that I thought I was turning back.”
“You’re just west of Northport, that’s quite a ways from Cedar. Are you riding by yourself out here?”
“Yeah, my weekend kind of fell apart, but I was not going to give up my only chance of getting up north this winter, so here I am, way off track, again.”
They took a long look at each other now, neither having any idea what to say. Finally Pete asked “Are you hungry?”
“Yes, I can’t lie, your dinner smells really good, but I can’t impose,” she started.
Pete however had made her mind up for her. He reached into the cupboard and pulled out another plate, lit the burner under the venison, and took a knife, fork and spoon out and set another place at the table. She watched him and then without anything further to add she sat down and started to butter a piece of bread. Pete had the potatoes reheated too and brought both pans to the table. He reheated his plate in the microwave as she helped herself. A moment later they were eating dinner together.
“My name is Alice,” she said, almost whispering, like the walls were listening.
“Pete.”
After they finished the dishes it was dark out, country dark, and the wind was fierce, throwing up huge clouds of powder, and it was snowing hard now. The TV news suggested eight to twelve inches by morning. Pete and Alice agreed that she would return to Cedar in the morning.
They passed the evening quietly. She found a book to read from the shelves, and noticed the framed photo of Pete as a graduate of Coast Guard basic training. They talked in short spurts, of this and that, and made a plan for the following day to take her and the sled back to Cedar. Pete watched a game on his laptop, shaking his head from time to time at a bad turnover. She studied him a little, looking up from her book. But he gave away little, and didn’t make much effort to ply his guest with questions. In fact, you would have thought he was sitting there alone if you had happened upon the scene.
She slept that night in one of the small bedrooms that two of the sisters used to share. When she woke in the morning, she heard a loud humming and out the window, below her, she saw Pete on his tractor moving along slowly, the blower on the back sending a thick, heavy stream of snow out into the orchard. She dressed and went down to the first floor. On the sink in the bathroom there was a towel and washcloth, and a new toothbrush in a wrapper, like the ones they hand out after a cleaning at the dentist. She took the opportunity to use all three.
There was also hot coffee in the maker, a full pot, to which she helped herself. There were no dirty dishes in the sink or elsewhere. She opened the refrigerator and found half and half, and a pound of bacon. She hesitated for a second, and then thought Oh, why not, and went along and started breakfast. A quarter of an hour later she heard Pete stomping his boots in the mudroom and she put a cup of hot coffee on the counter for him. He added a little cream and nodded to her. He smelled the bacon and warmed his hands at the stove as she got the toast started. He noticed that the clutter of the front room had disappeared; books, newspapers, bills and magazines were all in separate piles, placed correctly where they could be of use. It was all good. He sat down and soon she had fresh coffee in the cup, bacon, eggs and toast on the plate and the two of them ate their second meal together.
After breakfast there was a break in the snow and the sun appeared like a small miracle. Pete got dressed again for the outdoors and walked over to the barn. He rode back on his own sled with a gas can. He filled up both sled tanks with the gas and then he and Alice started out and she tried to remember the address of the place where she was staying, but couldn’t come up with it. Pete smiled broadly at this, almost chuckling, which irritated Alice. I’m not some lost ditzy woman, she thought.
“When I was in the Coast Guard, in some new town, I would always get lost one night during the first week, trying to get home from the bar. It became a joke after a while,” he said.
“Oh, right,” replied Alice.
“Well, we’ll get you back to the main street of Cedar and then you can probably figure it out from there.”
Pete led the way through orchards and open fields. They bounced along through very deep powder. Alice’s tracks were now hidden by the overnight snow. It took a few hours but they were near downtown when Pete pulled over in front of a small hardware.
“Where to from here?” asked Pete.
For a reason he could not remember he followed Alice all the way to the door of the house she’d rented for the weekend. “Let me make you something to eat before you get on your way,” she said and without waiting for an answer she was through the door and into an enclosed porch. The both kicked off their boots and eventually their snowsuits after they’d warmed a little inside. Having packed enough food for two, while also missing a couple of meals, the fridge and the larder were full, so there were plenty of options. She ended up making grilled roast beef sandwiches on onion rolls, with mushroom soup on the side. They talked a little more, at least a little more than they had the night before. She had President’s Day off, but she needed to be checked out of the rental before 1:00 PM.
“Well, if you’re ever up again this way, don’t hesitate to call,” said Pete, jotting down his number on the back of the paper sack the onion rolls came in. They said their good byes nonchalantly, and Pete ran back up north following the same trail.
Alice Benes was 25 years old, a college graduate and a Registered Nurse from Mt. Pleasant, Michigan. Her parents both worked at the local university, CMU, from which she’d graduated. She had her own place, but spent a lot of time at Mom and Dad’s house where there was more room, her two dogs and better food. Her parents didn’t mind, as all the children, including her two brothers, were on their own now. Alice dated when a good opportunity offered, but had as yet not met a man with whom a serious relationship was a possibility, or even a probability.
Around the college campus there were large numbers of young men, but few were interested in anything more than a few months, a short weekend trip maybe, but that was the extent of the interest. It finally occurred to Alice that her odds were not increased by the number of young men in a college town, but decreased by the even larger numbers of young women. She rolled the rock up the hill, only to watch it roll back down a couple of months later. It was not trivial at first, but over time she found the whole exercise a little exhausting but not emotionally profound. She learned to move on quickly.
In the middle of April Pete was out in the orchard doing the last of the pruning and putting in a couple of replants for trees that hadn’t made it when he saw two legs moving through the trees several rows away. He acted like he hadn’t noticed her coming along and resumed his work. He was a little surprised at himself, not wanting her to see that he’d noticed, that he was glad for the visit. Stupid, like some damn kid, he thought. He hung the loppers on a branch and walked forward to meet her. She ducked under a branch to cross into his row and they stood smiling at each other for a minute. He reached out first and shook her hand, “Alice,” was all he could think to say.
“Pete,” she responded, as if they were business associates.
“Warm today, first real warm day of the year,” managed Pete.
“Yeah, it’s beautiful out,” Alice said, her hands stuffed into her back pockets.
“It is beautiful. I caught a nice steelhead yesterday, you should stay for dinner,” Pete offered, also stuffing his hands into the back pockets, but backwards.
“Oh, thank you, but c’mon, I can’t keep eating here, you’ve been so decent about it,” Alice said, a bit embarrassed. She knew the answer was yes, and he knew the answer was yes.
“Why don’t you follow me up to the house and we can catch up and get things started?”
“Ok,” Alice said softly, turning to trek back to where she’d parked. Pete gathered his saws and loppers into the back of the ATV and bounced back to the house.
Inside the conversation was, for Pete and Alice, lively. What they had both been doing the past two months was rehashed in some detail. Her job downstate, the relentless crush of new patients in the hospital. She asked about the orchard, what it required in the spring, when it would blossom. They continued to talk and even laugh during dinner. The fish was excellent, a simple meal, but they both ate well and Pete even splurged and split a beer with Alice. As the night air cooled Pete worked what little of last night’s fire remained in the firebox and added some tinder and finally a few split logs. It was a roaring beauty before long. He also grabbed a clean sweatshirt for Alice, who looked a little chilled. She hadn’t realized how big he was until she put it on. The arms nearly touched her knees, but it was warm and she was grateful. She drove back to the house where she was staying a couple of hours later thinking that all the anxiety she’d felt about coming up north again was silly. She couldn’t bring herself to call him on the phone; it was just too forward, too not desperate, really, but needy. To just drop by was less obvious somehow, like she was simply taking a drive and noticed the farm looked familiar.
She also thought that night, trying to read a bit before sleep came, that the farm looked so different in the green of spring. There were still a few tufts of snow in the forest here and there, in dark ravines away from the sun, but it was coming back to life; the fruit tree showed green tip buds where soon the leaves would open. She thought about the next day’s outing, too, for pizza and live music someplace that Pete knew about and wanted to take her.
This was all I was able to learn talking to a few people in the Northport area. Several tables at The Mitten brewery allowed me to join when I mentioned that I was “here for Pete,” which was a fabrication of course, not a complete lie, but false nonetheless. But I was welcomed into their group and once I found out a few details of Pete’s life, his Coast Guard stint for example, I was able to offer my own tall tale of having met Pete in the past. Of course I could not have picked him out of a lineup and the notion that he might show any minute and reveal me as an imposter hung over my head the whole evening. But for some reason I couldn’t shake the idea that something kind of extraordinary was going to take place that weekend and I had a real itch to find out what it was.
After a couple of the blond ales I found myself a little too relaxed and then noticed the same group of sisters that I’d seen at Dick’s enter the outdoor beer garden. After they were settled I managed to wander by and catch their notice. Before long I was sitting with them and hearing a very different story. From the previous table I thought for sure that the ‘big event’ was a marriage between Pete and a young woman named Alice. But now the conversation among the sisters led me to believe it might be a funeral that we were all going to attend the next day. I even entertained the possibility that Pete was going to be sentenced the next day for a crime too hideous to discuss in detail, until I remembered that tomorrow was Saturday and it was unlikely to have any judge working on a Saturday.
The sisters were so down in the mouth about Pete and what the harlot, they actually used the word, Alice had done to him to force him into such a tangled mess. What choice did Pete have for goodness sake? He had to take the terrible turn he took, there was no other course; all was lost. All? After a third blond ale I was sure it was a funeral that I was going to attend, and being a vain man I became worried that I didn’t have the proper clothes to bury the poor devil Pete, or was it Alice, or both? I’d driven up for a little summer vacation, not for such serious matters as these. I walked away with a “good evening” and a friendly wave to all the tables, and with the important knowledge that the service, whatever it was, would take place at the historic St. Wenceslaus church at 1:00 PM the following day, and the uneasy feeling that I had walked into a real life drama for which I was unprepared. What had this brash, unpredictable boy Pete done? But there was no turning back now. I was the new owner of a small house in the village and people would soon learn who I was and eventually my ruse would be found out and my reputation tarnished, unless I was able to carry it off somehow, and make it make sense finally. The blond ales made sleep come easily. I would figure it out tomorrow!
The next morning I woke to a really nice, beautiful summer day. I walked over and had a coffee and donut at Barb’s Bakery. The wind had settled and the sky was that bright blue that comes a couple of days after a storm passes and clear, pristine air blows from the north. On the walk home I thought it wise to purchase a My Condolences for Your Loss card, and also, come to think of it, a Best Wishes on Your Wedding Day card. The young clerk eyed me a bit warily. I can’t blame her. The only thing that could have made the purchase more confusing was a Congratulations on The Stork’s Recent Visit card, which I saw as I was leaving and nearly stopped to buy.
At 12:52 PM I walked out to the car and made my way the few miles to St. Wenceslaus. It was a pleasant setting, surrounded on all sides by apple and cherry trees, the main business on this end of the peninsula. I didn’t want to arrive too early and answer again the questions about how I knew Pete or Alice. I looked for clues of what I was going to find once I entered the Church, a casket or a proud groom. I saw the four sisters; bless them, but was it really necessary to dress in black, all black? There was a limousine outside the front door, but that is not uncommon these days with cremations becoming a more popular route back to the dust from which we came. I patted the two cards in the inside pocket of my Brooks Brother’s blazer and made my way inside, the last guest. What I saw as I entered astonished me, and continues to astonish me to this day.
All of this took place many years ago. I was not yet retired, and my visits to the Peninsula, as it’s known, were infrequent. A weekend here and there, a few weeks over the summer. I always took a short detour during every visit to drive by the farm where this story started in the deep snow of February and where it continues to this day. Pete and Alice have three boys now. The little rascals always have some new hijinks created to keep themselves amused; the dueling tractor tire swings were a little risky but broken bones are part of life’s lessons I suppose. Pete still laughs whenever I run into him. What a funny sense of humor, his eyes say, as he gives me the once over; to meet a man for the first time in the bathroom of a local winery - at his wedding reception - and hand him a condolence card! How unusual!
To this day I’m still astonished at the memory of the four sisters when I walked through the church door that fine day, begging the bride, on her father’s arm, not to go through with it, not to hitch her life to Pete’s sullen, frigid heart, even as the organist started all over again with Pachelbel’s Canon in D for the third time! I’m afraid all their worst fears have come true. With three sons the 200 acres will stay in the hands of a Kucera farmer long after the four of them have left this earth. Ten 20 acre lots at half a million each is “a lot of damn cherries and apples,” “and a million bucks each” as the four sisters exclaimed to the father and daughter moments before her marriage; that is certainly true, but it’s still not a good reason to forestall perhaps the only chance at life’s blessings Pete and Alice might ever have.
